For Filch
by whitetiger91
Summary: Poor Filch. No mother; alcoholic father. Bullies around the corner, a nosy neighbour watching his every step and a cat his only friend. What other unlucky things could go wrong? Oh yeah, he is now accused of murdering his father. Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. Rated T for some mild teenage themes.


**For Filch**

 _ **A/N: I do not own anything from the world of Harry Potter.**_

* * *

 ** _~15 April, 1966~_**

Time was running out. Emmett Hodge combed his fringe back with a rough hand as he tried to push away the oncoming headache. The more his colleagues nit-picked through the shabby little house in search of clues, the more likely the culprit would get off Scott-free, with no evidence to keep him in custody.

"Come on, come on," Emmett muttered, pacing the dusty old threadbare rug and shooting furtive glares at the white-clad forensics kneeling on the floor by the body.

In turn, one man rolled his eyes upwards before turning back to examining the victim's scalp. Scarlet clumps were crusted around a large dent in the skull, clinging to stringy brown hair. The victim's vivid blue eyes were open, staring unblinkingly at the grimy wall opposite him. The team had already announced that the victim had not died from alcohol poisoning, having also taken into consideration the numerous empty bottles lying about the kitchen table, yet Emmett knew that much was obvious. In fact, anyone with two eyes and half a brain would see that it was the blow to the head that was fatal.

But no: it all had to be officially recorded.

Emmett couldn't say he felt any sympathy for the dead bloke. From the unkempt room to the dirt underneath the man's fingernails, he could tell that he was more of the lower class variety, possibly a man living on welfare. The only hint of wealth in the house was the small topaz ring the man held in outstretched fingers, long forgotten by anyone as his life was swept away. Still, Emmett had seen many cases where it was not just the father in families like these that was no good; no, it was usually ungrateful offspring looking to scrounge money off their parents for their next fix. If the culprit was anything like his own son, then Emmett had also discovered the motive for the murder.

"Alright, finish up, you lot. We already know the case back to front so collect the weapon, send off for finger-print confirmation, and let's get this show on the road!"

"But sir-"

"If it is too heavy, get another lad to help you out."

Emmett sighed as two of his team struggled to lift the murder weapon. It was no wonder that the murderer hadn't bothered to hide it—or rather, didn't have time to move it. The large brass pot was a peculiar item, really, much too old-fashioned for his tastes. He supposed though that it was all the family could afford, and was probably sturdy enough to last whatever cheap meals they brewed in it. He'd be happy when the prints on it confirmed that it was the boy who had used it to thwack his father.

* * *

 ** _~Earlier that day~_**

His chest tightened, his breathing becoming laboured as his heart thudded against his ribs. Between the stitch in his side and the hunger pains in his stomach, he was surprised he had managed to come as far as he had. Nevertheless, he was still not in the clear and had to stifle his panting lest the noise tip off his followers of his whereabouts.

"He went this way!"

Argus closed his eyes, relaxing ever-so-slightly against the cold metal bin behind him. The sounds of sneakered feet slapping the pavement were heading away from him, probably detecting the rattling of shed doors in the wind as a sign he was hiding elsewhere. If only they would move away quicker, he could slip out of the alleyway, cut across the road and make it to his home unscathed. His stomach flipped over impatiently, swirling around anxiously as each person passed.

Unfortunately, luck was never on Argus' side.

"Girrrooooooooorrrrroooooo."

"He's here! He's here!"

Argus cursed as his stomach growled, louder than it had ever done so before. He scrambled to his feet and quickly tried to push past the nearest pursuer. He was immediately yanked back by the back of his shirt collar, his feet momentarily leaving the bitumen as he fell backward.

"Well, well, little rat. Thought you could outrun us, eh? Well, we'll just have to teach you a lesson." One of the boys, Michael Finch, bared his teeth his teeth in a menacing grin.

Argus squeezed his eyes shut and curled his fists in front of his face protectively, knowing what would come even before the first punch to his stomach sent him wheezing.

There was no point in fighting—he had learned that months ago. The boys were not only taller than him, their fourteen years of life an advantage to his mere twelve, but were built for harassing smaller boys. Argus had become their favourite victim, having once foolishly tried to stick up for himself by brandishing an old wand of his father's that he could not use. Yet no matter how many times it happened, the pain was no more bearable.

"You're a freak; everyone in your whole family is a freak!" Michael yelled, his fists continuing to hit every part of Argus' body.

"Yeah, it's no wonder your mother left you! Her husband a drunkard and son dumb as shit without any friends," another boy, Jimmy, chimed in.

"What a loser!"

Argus endured the cruel taunts, taking each blow that came with them as what he thought only a man could. It wasn't until he was left with a split lip, blood dribbling down his chin, and a bruised eye that the group of boys finally left him curled up against the sidewalk, trembling and begging for a miracle. Slowly and carefully, he stood up, balancing his weight onto the leg that had not been kicked and stomped on repeatedly.

The autumn sky was slowly darkening, ominous grey clouds threatening to block out the bright sun before it could say a proper farewell for the day. Argus had to be careful not to put too much pressure on himself, limping as fast as he could manage down the quiet streets as aching gasps every so often relieved some of the pain. The short cut wasn't an option anymore—not with his injuries.

It meant that he had to walk past nosy old Mrs Norris' place next door. Sure enough, the old bat was peering out of her curtained window at him disapprovingly, tutting away behind the window as she took in his injuries.

* * *

"Look at him, just look at him! A scoundrel, didn't I tell ya? No good-doing boy would be all bruised up like that—getting into fights no doubt. Guilty if anything." Emmett crossed his arms satisfactorily, pleased that finally his colleagues were ready to proceed further with the investigation.

He surveyed the boy sitting in the holding cell, shaggy brown hair covering his drooping eyes. The boy's clothes were tattered, rips predominate at his knees, neck and shirt front. Emmett could see traces of dirt against the boy's pale skin, illuminated further as the boy rocked back and forth slightly, knees brought up to his chin. They wouldn't let Emmett put him in the other cramped cells with the other processed criminals. No, of course not; everyone was being too soft, making him give the silent boy a bowl of soup to eat as he waited. At least they hadn't made him set the boy free—yet.

"Excuse me, excuse me. I'm looking for the detective working on the Filch case. Where might he be?"

Emmett sat up keenly, taking in the old woman as she walked into the station. Her tight ginger hair was peppered with steely grey, and her eyes, a strange almost yellow colour, were sharp. Her entire demeanour said 'no-nonsense' and as Emmett stood up to greet her, she wasted no time in commanding him to seat her somewhere for the interview she was required to participate in.

"Mrs Norris- er, Matilda, may I call you that?"

"Ms Norris, if you don't mind."

"Uh, right, Mrs Norris—how long have you known the Filch family?"

"Quite some time, around thirteen years with the father—the victim, as you so call him—and the mother. I've known the boy since he was born."

"And what type of family are they? Are they hard-working? How is the son's behaviour?"

"I do not like to participate in idle gossip," Mrs Norris replied curtly. Seeing his downfallen face, however, she continued. "However, the mother did leave a few years ago, said she couldn't handle the lifestyle anymore, and took off with some other fellow. Left the boy alone to his father. The father's a rotten, lazy drunkard in my opinion—lost himself after she went. As for-"

"So, the boy was often left alone to his own devices then?"

"Well—" Matilda glared at Emmett, ensuring he knew that she did not like to be interrupted. "As for the boy, well, I pay him to do the odd chore or two around my house. He's often late, sometimes getting involved with the other local boys, but he doesn't do too bad a job."

"Involved with the local boys, you say? So he's a thug, then. Would you say he is violent? Greedy? Maybe even a thief?"

Emmett was getting excited, sure the woman's testimony would be what he needed. His team could see the boy was a ruffian now, but he still needed a character witness to fit into the charges. Scribbling furiously and cursing when the ink refused to work as well as it should have, he scrawled down her responses onto his notepad.

"I did not say that he was a thug."

"But—"

Emmett stopped his writing, looking up at Matilda's narrowed eyes. Her chin was held up defiantly, making him shrink backwards a little at her fierce expression and flaring nostrils.

"I do not appreciate words being taken out of my mouth, Mr Hodge. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have answered every question truthfully, and there is some pressing business I have to attend to."

Dumbstruck, Emmett watched as Matilda gracefully rose from the vinyl chair and strutted out of the room. He was sure the old bat would give him the information he needed. It didn't matter anyway – he would write to forensics and tell them to hurry up with their reports so that he could officially arrest the boy and be done with another successful case.

* * *

Argus winced as the door slamming behind him—he didn't want to wake his father. Carefully placing his dirty coat on the protruding nail, he tiptoed from the hall into the dimly lit kitchen. If he were lucky, his father would be out for another half an hour—long enough for Argus to quickly prepare a meal on the stove.

He winced as the stray cat he often fed wound her way around his legs, purring almost as if to comfort him over his ordeal. She shouldn't have been in the house in the first place, but Argus, having snuck her in the night before to keep him company, had forgotten to let her out that morning. Bending down, he lowered his hand to give her a welcoming pat.

Unfortunately, as he bent back up and slid the cauldron onto the stove, a cold voice made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

"You're late."

Slowly, Argus turned around. His father was sitting at the table, its once shiny surface now littered with old copies of The Daily Prophet and Firewhiskey bottles.

"Sorry, sir."

Argus ducked his head, ready for the shouting that would come. Sometimes his father would throw the odd bottle at him—his drunken aim was never any good though, and he mostly always managed to duck out of the oncoming shards of glass that rebounded off the wall.

His father surveyed him, thin lips twisting upwards into a sneer as he took in all of Argus' injuries. Argus stared at his father's hand, ashamed that he had not been able to defend himself.

"What happened to you, then? Been messing with those Muggle kids again, eh? Seems they've taught you a lesson, filthy boy. Bet you didn't lay one on them, no, you're a good-for-nothing Squib, you is, got it from your wretched mother's side. In-breds, the lot of them!" His father spat on the mottled carpet, face now swollen with disgust.

Argus watched as his father drummed his fingers on the table, his round chest rising and falling rapidly. His father's jaw was moving from side to side furiously—a sign he was thinking hard – as his cheeks reddened. Little glistening beads of sweat shone on his forehead as he twisted something golden between his fingers.

Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Argus's father ignored him as he let out a gasp of surprise. His father was holding his mother's topaz ring, one of the only rings she had ever owned. Argus knew that the stone wasn't particularly valuable—definitely not like the dazzling diamonds most Pureblood women adorned themselves with—but it was something his mother had been proud to wear. He had hoped that one day she would come back for it, and when she did, she would realise how much she missed her son.

As his father's intentions for it became clear, however, Argus began to panic. She would never come back if it was gone.

"Useless crap, better fetch a good price, I'm sick of eating the shit broths you serve me," Mr Filch abruptly stood up, scraping the chair legs against the floor. Taking another swig out of the nearest bottle, he scowled upon realising it was empty. "Better yet, sick of drinking this shit, gotta be something better."

Before he could stop himself, Argus yelled out, "You can't sell mother's ring!"

His feet carried him forward, each step as though it was someone else moving. Within a second he had reached his father and was pulling on his sleeve.

"What do you think you're doing? Get off!"

"No, please father, don't—"

Argus' pleas were cut off by his father' back hand landing against his cheeks. Immediately, a burning sensation warmed his face, but Argus would not let go.

"What do you think you're doing? You dare to take me on like you did those filthy Muggles?" Through bleary eyes, his father whipped out his wand. "This'll teach you, you ungrateful bastard!"

Every undeveloped muscle in Argus' body burned as his father shot curse after curse at him. He couldn't make out the words his father mumbled, couldn't understand the incantations, and couldn't find the energy to even back up farther against the wall. Argus could feel his earlier wounds reopening and squeezed his eyes shut once more, unable to stare at his raging father, the putrid smell of his breath more than he could bear. The cat had scuttled to the corner, hissing as his father continued to yell.

"Stand up, coward! Be a man! No, Squibs aren't men. They don't even deserve magic used upon them."

Peeking out of one blackened eye, Argus knew from experience what was coming. He focused his gaze on the kitchen stove, praying, wishing, that he could perform magic and save himself. For a moment he thought his concentration on the cauldron, now bubbling away with hot water, had risen a little, but all thoughts were blocked out as his father's fist connected with his stomach.

Argus gasped as the impact sent him folding over, old pains now mixing with the new. He knew his father would keep going, however, and tried to stand up straight. Sure enough, his father was preparing another drunken blow to befall him, fist raised mightily.

Argus watched his father's unfocused blue eyes staring at him, almost begging with his own to stop, before they widened suddenly. Argus stopped breathing, barely registering his father's plummet to the ground, as he saw the cauldron land with a loud clanking thud on the floor.

* * *

"Mr Filch, you are free to go."

"What's this? You can't let him go!" Emmett ran into the room, a pile of papers in his hand. "Look! I have evidence that he is guilty!"

"Mr Hodge, this boy is clearly innocent, you do not want to be accused of breaking the law yourself by keeping him here any longer, do you?" His senior, Robert Ascott, stared him down, daring him to step further out of line.

"But- but- his fingerprints-"

"Yes, I am aware that his fingerprints were all over the scene, including on the weapon. But as the boy has explained, he has used that… pot… numerous times to cook his father dinner. Besides, how do you expect him to have lifted such a heavy item way above his height and thrust it so hard that it could crack a fully grown man's skull? It is simply impossible."

"But, well, look at the boy! He is clearly the making of a murderer—hair unwashed, clothes torn. Besides, no one else was there! Who else could've done it?"

"Mr Hodge, will you lower your voice? The boy's appearance, though shabby, does not make him a killer. The ring was still in hand, so clearly he did not want it as you keep suggesting, and thus had no motive," Robert held up his finger, sensing Emmett's forming protest, "but I do agree someone is the murderer. We will simply have to leave the case open until more suspects can be brought forth. Now come, we have other cases to solve," Robert finished with a stern look at Emmett, effectively ending anymore conversation on the topic.

Emmett stared disbelievingly at Robert's retreating form, mouth gaping open and the files in his hand now feeling like a bunch of rubbish. He then swivelled his head in the direction of the boy, eyes narrowed. He was sure the boy was laughing at him, seeing the barest hint of a smile stemming from his new freedom. Around the boy's ankles, a stray cat wound itself around him. He was clueless as to how the ruddy creature had been allowed into his station, taking it as another sign that the boy was mocking his authority.

"Coming Emmett?" Robert called, eyebrows raised.

"Yes," Emmett grumbled, still glaring at both the cat and boy. Argus was guilty, he was sure of it.

As he turned to leave, he took one last glance at them. He had to blink a few times, for he was sure that the cat with its familiar yellow, lamp-like eyes, had winked at him.

* * *

 _ **A/N: A huge thank you to my captain for beta-ing this fic, Gitana del Sol! And to everyone for reading this fic, hopefully it wasn't too disappointing!**_

 _ **This was written for the Quidditch League as Chaser 1 for Falmouth Falcons. My task was to write about a lesser - written genre . Of course, being unlucky, the possible genres listed all seemed a little hard to me, and I ended up picking 'crime'. Before I could even write the fic I had to research it, and though I like watching some shows, including Miss Marple (unashamed haha), it doesn't mean I'm any good at it... at all. This is my best shot at a sort of 'who dunnit?' type crime fic, and fingers crossed it wasn't too obvious who did it until the ending. I'd like to kid myself that it would be better if I had a larger word limit, but who knows? On the other hand, I've always wanted to explain how Filch came across Mrs Norris (who is in her fifties in this to explain why she's still alive decades later with Harry and co.), and this was one possibility (the other being she was a girl who helped him and later in life his pet cat was his only other companion, thus deserving of the same name). Plus, we all know Mrs Norris is a little nosy but overprotective of Filch and vise versa.**_

 _ **Emmett and the rest were of course made-up Muggle police officers who don't understand magic. And just in case you can't tell, Emmett hates kids, especially as his son is always looking for money- maybe I'll explore his story in another fic as he runs into all sorts of magical villains and heroes alike in the series. Maybe even in relation to the Muggle kids killed by Fenrir Greyback in the 70s?**_

 _ **Apologies, too, for the hyphens/ lines. My computer is currently at war with me, so between putting it on this and going through docX when betaing, some have changed size. Please know, they should be as they would in a novel and I am aiming to fix ASAP.**_

 _ **My optional prompts for this story, as underlined for easy pick-up for judging (these notes included at end so not to spoil it), were:**_

 _ **(Gem) topaz (erm, a ring was the only thing that really fitted)**_

 _ **(Word) experience**_

 _ **(Opening sentence) 'Time was running out.'**_

 _ **Thanks for reading the fic, and these notes :) -Tigress x**_


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